Evanescent Grace
by Lordoftheghostking28
Summary: She was beauty. She was art.


**Evanescent Grace**

**_WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY_: Implied self-harm, suicide. If you don't like this stuff, you don't have to read. It's ok.**

**I know this is going to be a really cliché oneshot, but this was more of a writing exercise I made myself do just to see if I could write some romance.**

**This took me three days to write and two to edit. I really hope I did well.**

**XxXxXxXx**

It was the way her voice carried the setting sun's colours.

That was what I noticed first about her. Her voice was warm and inviting; the very essence of what the sky would say if it possessed a tone like hers. I wanted to take every word she spoke and transfer them to my works. A single sentence from her smiling lips was more beautiful than any art I could create.

I was captivated. I tried and tried again to transfer her image on paper, but there was no colour in existence that could replicate what was in her eyes.

To say I loved her was an understatement. 'Love' was too shallow a word for what I felt for her.

She was perfected art. The way her hair glided with the wind, the way her eyes shone, the grace she carried when she walked.

I could see through her abstract happiness. Art comes from suffering, and her beauty was the result of it.

She was so beautiful for braving the suffering. Her surface warmth was accented by the cool hues beneath. The scars that marred the underside of her wrists told a wrenching story of survival. She was a true masterpiece. No artist would ever hope to create art as astonishing and moving as this.

And yet, I still tried.

It was my goal to capture her on a piece of paper; to preserve her beauty. I considered it a challenge. If I could take the very essence of art and manage to transfer it to the paper with my brush and paints, I would truly be the greatest. I slaved over the papers, starting over again and again, not close to capturing the sparkle in her eyes or the curves of her lips.

She was tearing me apart and invoking something in my artistic creativity. I didn't just want to draw her form, I wanted to be with her.

But still, I watched her from a distance, her abstract happiness only highlighting the sadness that threatened to break through the surface. She wouldn't think of me like I did of her. No, compared to her...I was jagged and incomplete, a freakshow of unrealistic proportions and ideals. My hands were surreal, something out of a nightmare. She would think of me as a discarded project.

So I watched. I watched her, a human canvas of perfection. I could only dream of her.

And yet nothing, not even art, lasts forever.

The warmth in her words were freezing, tiny ice crystals sparkling and imbedding themselves in my heart. I could see her sadness, her suffering, threatening to break to the surface. Crimson that should have been painted over roses was slathered across her wrists.

Her gait, once so smooth and confident, was crippled and shrouded. Her eyes were dulled, like too many contrasting colours mixed together.

Her beauty was tainted by an unclean brush. It made me furious that something as beautiful and perfect as her could be corrupted. I had to stop it.

I approached her one darkened afternoon. I asked if everything was ok.

I told her I loved her.

I could see the shock in her face, but it didn't register for more than a second. She took a while to respond.

"Deidara..." she spoke my name so softly. "How could you love me? I'm nothing but a burden. I can't stay ahead of my own life. I'm just a mess of a person...I'm too sad, too broken...too much of a freak. But you...you're so graceful. You have eyes like the sea and a soul as deep. You're so unique...it's difficult to describe."

All the words tumbled from the bottom of my heart. She was perfect. She was art. She was as beautiful as an angel, a butterfly that couldn't see its own wings. She couldn't see how beautiful she was to me.

To my surprise, crystal tears began to fall from her eyes and onto the ground.

She didn't believe me.

There was nothing more I could say to convince her. There was nothing I wouldn't give to make her see herself as I saw her.

She walked away.

I never saw her grace again.

The girl who radiated perfection and suffering would never speak another word in her colours. Her transient grace was halted, stalled and left to fade.

She was so beautiful and so evanescent. So fleeting and captivating. She brought so much pain in her passing I could feel my heart break.

She was truly art.

Art makes you long for it to last, but it never does. Art makes you think and marvel over its beauty. Art leaves an impact in a few short-lived moments that never seem to last.

Art is an explosion of powerful emotions and colour.

It is something you see once and remember for as long as you live.

**XxXxXxXx**

**Alright, so I never outright described the girl, besides her scars, but you began to picture someone, didn't you? I hope you did. That was my goal; to use a thousand words to describe a picture.**

**Remember to review! Was it good? Bad? Ok? Please tell me, romance is the stuff I really struggle with!**

**Hasta la Vista, Readers!**

**Lordoftheghostking28**


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